


SWALLOWED IN THE SEA

by MaryLouLeach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Bromance, Deja Vu, Drowning, Family, Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John doesnt remember Sherlock, Memory Loss, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sherlock finds John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryLouLeach/pseuds/MaryLouLeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought If he went to the funeral then it would mean John had really passed. It would feel like he killed John, just by attending the funeral. If he didn't go he could believe the Doctor was on a holiday or at the clinic or visiting his drunk of a sister. In the end the consulting detective had gone. “Good men must die, but death cannot kill their names”.-Spanish proverb</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A GOOD MAN

CHAPTER 1. A GOOD MAN

It was always the same dream, the cold water pulling, and ravenous in its need to submerge it's victim completely into the darkness. There was always thrashing, he wasn't a man that gave in easily, he would fight to live.

The freezing waters numbed and sapped it’s victim of all strength. Too quickly and at the same time as if in slow motion the surface of the water grew further and further, panic started to set in, slower and slower he was pulled into the dark. Sherlock ripped awake screaming.

"John!" the consulting detective would sit up, his brow beaded with sweat, his night cloths clinging to him. Another reason to loath sleep, he hated dreaming. After three days, his transport turned on him and pulled Sherlock into the nightmares always awaiting unconsciousness. The dark haired consulting detective brought a shaking hand to rub his eyes, at the same time he attempted to calm his breathing.

If John were there, he would have given Sherlock a shake, he would have pulled him out of his nightmare. Then he'd wait for his friend's panting to calm, and announce in a half yawn half sigh, "Tea."

Sherlock kept a hand to his chest, looking around the empty flat, John wasn't there. John was dead, and he wasn't coming back. Yet he couldn't help but believe otherwise.

The ship John was on sank, only a few made it off. Some of the survivors described a short blond man helping the women and children into the lifeboats. Of course that would be John, recklessly giving up his spot in a life raft so others could have it.

The ex soldier would be sure to get as many off the ship as he could, all the way up to the point of being submerged completely, pulling those inside down, down into the maddening darkness.

Water, it was said drowning was the most peaceful way to go. Somehow Sherlock found no comfort in the thought.

The minutes seemed to be longer and emptier without John, how was that? Time wasn't usually relevant to the consulting detective, but somehow he knew this fact. He knew, it had been exactly One month, thirty days and six hours since John was reported dead.

Sherlock thought if he went to the funeral then it would mean John had really passed. It would feel like he killed John, just by attending. If Sherlock didn't go he could believe the Doctor was on a holiday or at the clinic or visiting his drunk of a sister. In the end the consulting detective had gone, he watched as a tearful Harry and Mrs. Hudson followed behind John's coffin. Then the soldiers standing outside the church. Sherlock did not go inside, he kept his distance at the cemetery. The detective watched John's friends crowding around, as if trying to get a peek at the descending coffin. It was an empty coffin. _Empty_.

Mycroft had gone all out, no expenses were spared. There should have been some consolation in this fact, however the younger Holmes found nothing helped ease this pain.

Sherlock couldn’t help but observe, that was what he did and he could do this so well. After everyone left, the last to linger being Lestrade, he was there for an hour longer. Finally he turned to leave, his steps slow and his shoulders drawn.

Sherlock approached the grave then, reading the clear lettering carved in the smooth gray stone. He wondered if Mycroft had chosen what it said under John's name and birthday.

_Good men must die but death cannot kill their names._

And John had been the very best of men and a good human being, and no one would ever believe otherwise.

_**~0~** _

For Doctor Underhill it was always like this, a man on the roof, and the Doctor standing helpless in the road. Jeremy Underhill couldn't hear the conversation; he never could make out the words. But somehow he knew it was goodbye, it was goodbye and no matter what was said the young man on the roof jumped. Each time he jumped, Doctor Underhill would wake up screaming. He knew he had been screaming because his throat was sore and voice hoarse.

Looking around his sparsely furnished room he couldn't help feeling lost. This was his room, he told himself; _this is my life_.

He should feel grateful the kind landlord below was more than happy to rent it out to him. It had been two months, or something close since he'd washed up on shore. No identification just a suitcase he was clinging to, marked Doctor Jeremy Underhill. The small village’s Doctor assured him that his memory would return, and the authorities had already been alerted of his being alive.

It turned out Jeremy was supposed to be coming to the village anyway taking over another Doctor's practice. Jeremy wasn't so sure with taking over a spot he couldn't remember accepting. That and he wasn't comfortable with his memory loss and tending to patients.

However when Doctor Franz tested his knowledge Jeremy knew exactly what to use and say. It was only his memories he'd lost but not his skill. That made no sense to him, no sense at all. Another interesting fact was the scare on his shoulder, when had he received that? Why couldn’t he remember? Was his life so horrible before, was he a good man or a bad man?

As far as Jeremy could tell he didn't have any family, no pictures in his case, although his other luggage could have been lost to sea. Still no one came for him; he must be alone after all. It could be the reason he was going to such a secluded town after all. Whenever he thought of family his memory flashed to the rooftop nightmare and he wondered if it were a true memory. If he were in fact running from this memory and all it entails.

Jeremy shook his head, and rubbed his eyes, deciding to get up and make himself tea. This morning he wondered if he'd manage to get some more sleep, he didn't have to be up for another three hours to catch the train to London. Glancing down into his mug he sighed. Probably not, he looked over and realized he'd made two cups of tea. He often found himself doing this, and he wondered who he used to make tea for. Were they looking for him? Or had they been long since dead?

~0~

Mycroft watched the computer monitor, his brother was pacing the flat again. Mycroft looked away from the screen, shaking his head.

 The older Holmes had always known that John had completed his brother. John was the anchor and now Sherlock was lost. Mycroft reflected on this fact, the idea that Doctor John Watson was gone, as in not coming back.

For reasons unknown, Mycroft still expected to see the Doctor sitting in the flat or walking the street ready to be kidnapped. He shook these thoughts away, taking another pull from his nearly empty scotch. The funeral had been the worst part of this ordeal, well next to hearing the news of John’s passing.

 So many people some genuine in their mourning, others just there for the show. He'd been careful to keep the media out of this, still the words _HERO BLOGGER PUT TO REST_ , covered the paper and someone had taken a picture of the casket being lowered into the ground. For some reason this had angered Mycroft, knowing John hated the fuss, or would hate a fuss. If a corpse could hate anything.

Mycroft shook the thought away, he fumed over the thought of some one profiting off of a good man's funeral. With a sigh, the older Holmes turned back to the monitor, Sherlock was still pacing.

Everyone assumed Sherlock would attend John's funeral, but when the service started and he was no where to be found ,people wondered if the two flatmates had been friends at all.

Mycroft knew his brother had attended; he was hidden in the shadow of a tree, listening to the empty words of a hired preacher. Friends and family, well the only family was John's drunk sister and Mycroft had been sure she returned home safely. It was the least he could do for the Doctor, after all he would have done the same.

Mycroft hated this feeling of sentiment; he'd been trying for a while to put the Doctor behind him. It was these quiet times in between work and bed that the memory of John Watson wiggled his way into the British Government’s thoughts.

He poured himself a scotch and sat back looking over to the chair across from his desk thoughtfully. How many times had he kidnapped the blond Doctor? How many times did the man sit there with an exasperated grin on his face? Mycroft decided he'd be rid of the chair tomorrow, that would solve that.

He glanced over his paperwork once more, the clock chiming three am.


	2. ALMOST

**CHAPTER 2. ALMOST**

Molly always thought of  herself as a practical kind of woman, after all she was a pathologist. Alright, sure she had been accused of being whimsical at times and a little naïve, but she still had a good head on her shoulders. She certainly wasn’t mad, or was she?

Today she almost called out a dead man's name. She almost said it, the words were there on the tip of her tongue and she'd nearly yelled it out. It couldn't have been Doctor Watson, he was dead. She knew this, she also knew the process of death, the finality of it all.

When she read the report two months ago, and the cause of death was drowning, it haunted her for weeks.

 She didn't see what everyone else did, she could see the course playing out, the shutting down of organs in order from minor to essential.

Perhaps that’s what Sherlock saw too when he thought of John. Or maybe it would be more detailed almost tangible.

How morbid of them but it couldn’t be helped. She knew with certainty how the end would have come to her friend.

The way the shock of freezing water would have slowed the extremities, it would be quick but that brought her no comfort. John would have struggled against the numbing of his limbs, eventually losing the battle; water would then pull him down. His eyes would be open, and there would be a bit more of a resistance, but what was a few kicks and already numb arms against the icy waves? His lungs would fill with water, his brain would shut down due to lack of oxygen, and his heart would cease to beat. She knew it would be over in a matter of minutes, but again this brought her no consolation.

John with his great big heart, his understanding smile and kind eyes, lost by way of drowning. Did he feel pain? What were the last thoughts in his head, if any? Mostly, she wished to know if he had been afraid. Molly sank down onto a bus stop bench, clutching her messenger bag.

The slight pathologist tried to calm her rapidly beating heart, and the tears blurring her vision.

It had looked so much like him, if only she had been paying closer attention, if she would have taken a second to look up. "Silly Molly." She whispered to herself.

The petite pathologist tried to replay the moments once more in her head. Promising herself she would do this just once then forget it completely.

Someone had shoved into her on the street in a hurry to get to where they were going, just her luck she dropped her bag and nearly fell over. Really people could be so rude!

"Here, you go. You alright Miss?" a voice asked handing her a couple of the papers that nearly were trampled by unobservant feet.

"Yes. Thank you." She huffed taking the papers from his hands, warm hands, and scared knuckles. He obviously had seen some brawls in his time. She thought to herself absentmindedly, still not looking up.

"No problem. I'm always happy to help a damsel in distress." She couldn't help but laugh losing her earlier frustration. "Well if you're alright-I'm off." Molly had been to busy stuffing things into her messenger bag to look up. She smiled brightly to at least thank him properly, but he was already walking away.

Then it happened, the stranger turned back for one moment before he was completely enveloped into the crowd, one moment and her day was lost. The memory of a smile and a wave, a warm familiar smile and a short half wave, etched into her memory.

"Wait!" she'd run forward, those eyes were his, the same and his hair. "Wait!" she pushed through the heavy crowd, his black jacket further and further away, until she almost yelled his name. Almost.

"Goodbye." Molly whispered to no one but herself, and maybe the ghost of an old friend.

~0~

Jeremy felt a familiarity to London, but of course he would. After all wasn't he originally from London? He took in a breath of the cool spring air, people rushing about moving like traffic on the sidewalks. Everyone had somewhere to go, and the idea was comforting. Though he could never say exactly why.

He found himself wondering around, allowing his feet to take him wherever, in hopes that his memory would return. Sometimes he searched the tops of buildings, just to compare to the one in his nightmares. Was that why he left London? Did he lose someone close?

The idea of him running away from anything sat like a stone in his stomach. He hoped the old Jeremy Underhill was no coward, because this Jeremy Underhill sure as hell wasn't going to be.

Another heavy sigh, he would have passed the young woman without further notice, but some idiot pushed past her nearly knocking her off her feet. She looked completely lost for a moment, and he thought she looked familiar. Jeremy collected the few slips of papers that seemed to be getting away from the petite young lady with the brown side braid.

He wanted the opportunity to speak to her, maybe she knew him, or maybe he was just grasping at straws. To his disappointment she hardly paid him any attention, to flustered maybe. If she knew him then she would have said so, right? Best not harass the young lady she too had somewhere to be, just like everyone else.

Still he couldn't help but chance a look back at her, she rewarded the Doctor with a bright smile, before he continued on. The image of her face would follow him for a few more blocks, he felt strongly that he knew her. Or perhaps someone who looked like her, he wondered what her name could be, and what type of work she did. Perhaps a Doctor? No. She didn't seem the type, well at least not a GP.

Again, Doctor Underhill racked his brain, it was on the edge of his memory just out of reach, as if lingering close, juat at the border of his foggy memory. He almost turned back to find out, almost.

 

 


	3. Interruptions

**CHAPTER 3. Interruptions**

DI Lestrade pushed the damn paramedics back, demanding they open the doors and let him the hell out. Unfortunately this earned him a bit of calming medicine to his already inserted IV.

"Now, DI you've had a serious head injury. We need you to calm down, before you do more damage." One of the now blurry faced medics gently instructed.

"John?" Lestrade sighed before giving in to the dark that flooded him.

Later at the Hospital Lestrade would wake up to a very familiar condescending look, from his too thin consulting detective.

"It seems you've managed to find trouble even without me." Lestrade could read strain in his friend's voice. Yes, Sherlock was his friend; after all he did give up three years of his life just so Lestrade didn't take a bullet to the head.

Not too many people would fake their death for him; of course Sherlock Holmes isn't just anyone. Always with the dramatics, from the cool expressionless face to the dark bellstaff coat. Sherlock sure did know how to make an entrance, and (he thought darkly) an exit.

"The paramedics say they had to sedate you." Sherlock was frowning, his cool gray eyes washing over the DI's pale face.

"I saw-"Lestrade wondered if he could say it, there was an unspoken rule that no one mentioned _his_ name around Sherlock. It hurt to even think of the deceased man, it was like if you said _his_ name, then it meant _he_ really was dead.

He understood the idea behind it, not mentioning the big hole left in the middle of so many lives. Instead when it came to the consulting detective, you were expected to ignore it, but days like this Lestrade felt as if he were teetering at the edges and would fall in.

Sherlock probably thought it all unfair, he left for three years and after two years back he loses what he fought so hard to protect. Lestrade could see the strain it put on the dark haired man, the bags under his eyes more prominent and his cheek bones sharper.

No John to tell him to eat, to tell him to sleep, to make him tea, or even to tell him a damn joke. Lestrade missed having a pint with the ex soldier. Missed the camaraderie, it came so easy when John was around. Not to mention Lestrade felt like he had an ally in the good Doctor. Together they managed to keep their consulting detective out of trouble, well sometimes.

"You saw?" Sherlock pushed with his usual impatient tone, used on victims who don't get to the facts right away.

"Uh-" Lestrade cringed turning away, he couldn't say it.

"Well, Greg, I'll have you know after the idiot hit you he thought he could hide at his cousin's house."

"What? You caught him already? How-"

"Lestrade. I told you I wouldn't take the case because it wasn't in the least interesting. However, since you bumbled the apprehension, not surprising, I thought it best to-"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, wincing as he shook his head, "You're not fooling anyone. Thanks all the same." Lestrade knew his friend helped catch the culprit on the DI’s behalf.

Sherlock didn't reply instead he took a seat and continued to glare at Lestrade, after a rather long uncomfortable and somewhat awkward silence, the DI spoke first.

"Ugh, Sherlock?" Lestrade winced again, talking to loudly seemed to make his head start to pound.

"You need more pain medicine, I'll call the nurse." Sherlock shot up out of his chair, and seconds later a rather miffed charge nurse entered the room with a syringe.

"I'm fine I really don't need-oh that's nice." Lestrade felt the gradual onset of liquid warmth, wrapping around his body and relieving his pain.

"Better." Sherlock said in approval.

"You don't have to stay." Greg hoped he didn't sound drunk, and his eyes were so heavy.

"I know I don't have to. I want to." The dark haired detective nearly said this so low, Lestrade barely caught it. Then he shook his head, "Really Greg that was a simple mistake a rookie would have caught the fact he had a weapon and was in hiding at the last crime scene. He thought he was being clever. Idiot."

"Hey, I went to make sure I didn't miss anything." Lestrade huffed, then grinned stupidly.

"Yes, well you nearly-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "You should have had that idiot Sally with you. Going off –"

"Well this is a change." Greg couldn't help but giggle now; everything was a little out of focus.

"Well the idiot is in surgery then he'll be off to-" Sherlock gave a rather dark look annoyed over this second interruption.

"What in surgery? Why?" This was almost sobering, had someone shot to kill, his officers never took gunning down a suspect lightly. Hell his officers rarely checked out a gun unless it were special circumstances.

"He fell down the stairs. Broke his leg. Shame it wasn't his neck." The dark haired man said this so casually it took the DI a few seconds to comprehend what he just heard. Or maybe it was the drugs, either way, why did this explanation feel familiar?

"Jesus. How many times did he fall down the stairs?" Greg tried to sound annoyed but it came off amused.

"Irrelevant. Now that you are in suitable care, I will see you later. Do try not to further injure yourself. Really Lestrade I can't solve all your cases."

"We collaborate."

"Yes well-"

"Sherlock. I saw John." A heavy sigh, there he said it.

A beat. "What?"

"You heard me. I saw him. He helped me-waited till the paramedics came."

"Greg, you've had a serious hit to the head. I hardly doubt talking about near death experiences-"

"No. Not a ghost. He was real." Greg tried to sit up but the room started to spin almost immediately after.

"John Watson is dead. Nothing can bring him back no amount of juvenile wishing and pleading with whatever deity that would listen. Dead. Lestrade. As in dissolving tissue, and naked bones. No matter the fairness of it, he is dead. It's not hard to comprehend." Sherlock had to leave, he made the statement, made it true once more. This made him feel sick, he had to go, somewhere anywhere. Though his voice had been firm and he may have raised it a bit more than necessary, he made his point. All of this was irrelevant. He needed to escape, maybe some air?

It was a good thing the DI chose this time to fall into a drug induced sleep. The consulting detective had to think of other things, to keep his mind blank. Saying _his_ name always opened the locked and boarded up doors in Sherlock’s mind palace. The ones marked with John’s name.

Saying the name, made it difficult to pretend the Doctor was running an errand, maybe visiting family or at work. But Sherlock had said _His_ name, said it, and it felt as if he'd killed his friend. Up until then he could function on the thought-the false premise John would be returning. Being a man of logic he knew this to be impossible, yet he still ached for it. Why?

Finally the doors of John's locked room burst open, with the force of a river, or the cold ocean waters, just as destructive as any other force of nature. This wave of sentiment almost always knocked the consulting detective breathless. Every time it rendered him useless, for hours.

~0~

Well London was exciting. Jeremy couldn't believe what just occurred, but then again it felt normal and natural. "Oh, Jeremy. You sir are going mad." There was nothing natural about an officer of the law nearly bleeding to death in an alleyway.

Jeremy would have passed the injured man completely if it hadn't been for some instinct to take in his environment. As if he expected some form of attack from anyone at any moment. The disconcerting thing about that was he found himself comfortable with this fact, at ease really.

"What is wrong with you Jeremy? Pull it together." He had to giggle "We can't giggle, it's a crime scene."

This halted Jeremy in his steps. "We?" and he caught a flash of memory, the dark haired man in the same dark coat, his collar up. A porcelain face looking at him with a grin. Jeremy tried to hold to it. Knowing it was important somehow but just as quickly it was gone.

The Doctor sighed again, he'd washed the blood from his hands in the restaurants bathroom. This action brought held a familiarity to it. Except he thought of deserts and soldiers. Just another thing to add to the list of _"Things I don't know."_ Knowing his luck, it was a favorite movie his mind was drawing on. Brains were complicated; he being a doctor knew that, but still.

Sitting at the table in some restaurant Jeremy felt himself go over what just happened.

He'd seen the man in the alley trying to stand unsuccessfully, the obvious reason being the right side of his head had been injured somehow. At first Jeremy thought it a mugging, but something about the man in the coat made him think Police.

"Sir. You've been injured, I've called the ambulance. You have to try and not move." Jeremy spoke to the man as if to a child, keeping his hands firmly on the DI's shoulders. Was he a DI? How did he know that? He was certain; everything in the doctor demanded him to accept this as a fact. Just then the DI tried to get up again.

"Listen Detective Inspector, you need to lay still."

"He got away got to-"

"You aren't going anywhere Sir." Jeremy didn't mean to sound so severe but this gray haired man looked the stubborn type. To his relief the stranger stopped trying to get up. "Good. Now that, that's all settled. I'm going to put my jumper against the wound, it may hurt but it's necessary." Jeremy quickly pulled his brown jumper from his own body, the cold spring air not even registering. His adrenaline was driving him now, he would make sure this gentleman was alright.

"You-" The man tried to sit. "You're dead. Am I dead too?"

"Hardly." Jeremy held back a laugh, now wasn't the time. "And you aren't going to die." The sirens were nearing, but the Detective was clinging to the Doctor's wrist.

"You're real. How are you real?" Jeremy didn't answer instead he waved the medics over and explained the situation. They acknowledged his suggestions professionally and gently put the poor man on the stretcher. Except he DI didn’t want to let Jeremy go. The paramedics had to pry the man's fingers loose, the Doctor almost asked to ride along. Then seeing the obvious distress he was causing in the poor disorientated man, he thought against it.

"Here's your Jumper Doctor." One of the medics handed him the soiled material.

"Well it was good while it lasted." He would toss it in the alley's skip later.

"Open these damn doors!" He heard the grainy voice demand as he walked away shaking his head.

The blond Doctor sipped his tea, grateful the place allowed him to use the facilities. He would hate to look like a serial killer. Maybe to avoid more interruptions to his mission he should hail a cab. For some reason cabs made Jeremy uneasy, which was silly, who ever heard of killer cabbies anyway?


	4. Puzzles

**CHAPTER 4. PUZZLES**

Sherlock found sanctuary in the morgue, as usual nobody was around. He wondered where Molly had gone, it wasn't her lunch. Of all the staff, she was the least annoying. _Sometimes_.

The sound of sniffling drew his attention away from the fresh body on the table, another donation to science.

"Oh." Molly sniffed turning a corner, dabbing at her eyes. "I didn't expect-"

"Molly? Are you ill?" Sherlock's undisguised concern nearly caused the pathologist to sob all over again.

"No." She sniffed again, accepting a handkerchief from the tall detective.

"Injured?" She shook her head, not wanting to meet his cool gray eyes, like stones in the river. Smooth and gray, and at times very sharp.

Sherlock frowned he was trying to deduce the reasoning behind her emotional state.

"I just saw something today that threw me off. That's all." Molly hoped he accepted this answer and didn't probe further.

"Ah, it can't be as bad as Lestrade. He thought he saw a ghost today. Head injuries are messy, they easily cause confusion and disorientation." Sherlock tried to wave it off, turning to move towards the cadaver.

"Head injury?"

"Yes. Fight with a suspect. No worries Molly he is resting in the hospital heavily sedated."

"Wait, he saw a ghost?" her voice wavered.

"Yes.-"

"Sherlock I thought I saw Doctor Watson today, actually spoke to him, but he disappeared into a crowd before-"

"What?" Sherlock's faced looked pained.

"It's true. He helped me with my bag, I didn't look up because I'm an idiot and-and I was preoccupied with shoving things back into my bag. Then he was gone with a wave and a smile. But I swear-" Molly didn't get to finish the dark haired detective stormed out of the morgue without a word.

~0~

Sherlock didn't know where he was going until he was there. The alley where Lestrade had been left for dead. He could see the blood staining the filthy alleyway, the trail from the abandoned building to where the consulting detective stood. Scanning the area for clues, clues for what he didn't know. So many explanations, he needed to-the skip. It would have been missed by anyone else, but never this man.

Approaching this clue like a man would a skittish animal, Sherlock moved slowly. He wondered why his heart was pounding in his throat. Hearts should stay in chests, it was making his throat sore and it was hard to swallow.

Maybe his mouth was too dry to swallow, and his hands were unsteady. Interesting how a small piece of brown fabric could have such an affect on him.

John had worn that blasted brown jumper when he-well there were plenty of brown jumpers. Pulling it out of the bin for closer inspection he took in the blood stains. Lestrade's. The material was the same as John's, is that why Lestrade thought he saw the Doctor? He associated this jumper with John, it seemed plausible. Then he threw the brown abomination away from him. His mind raged against this idea, hope was an infectious little disease, it started as a tiny little dying ember, and slowly it grew and grew against the weight of logic, and threatened a conflagration.

_Why did Molly think she met John today? Why then on the same day?_ Sherlock's mind conflicted with his reasoning.

There was one place he could go to properly confirm these findings.

~0~

Mycroft Holmes didn't question his brother's sudden arrival at the Diogenes club, although it had been several months, even before John's death. This peeked the  curiosity of the older Holmes, but he refused to show this. The tension still existed between the two brothers, Sherlock had made it clear that he would never trust Mycroft. And Mycroft didn't blame him, but surely years had passed, why hold a grudge.

"Sherlock-"

"Damn the pleasantries Mycroft. I need access to the cctv."

"I'm not saying no." And he wasn't, after all he owed Sherlock more than just a few privileges and approval to play with government property. How does one measure time lost? How does one compensate for it? "But I would like to at least know the reason." Mycroft sipped his scotch, and then he really looked at his brother.

He had grown thinner, predictable, pale as usual but just a bit more than normal. His eyes were dark, and he ran all the way here. So it had to be important, but what could be so vital that the younger Holmes was made to sprint?

"Are you alright Sherlock? Would you like a scotch, perhaps a sandwich?"

"No." then as if he'd forgotten he added "Thank you."

"Alright then, we can access whatever it is you are looking for on my laptop. It will save you time." Mycroft wondered if his brother would demand to go elsewhere, but to his surprise his brother was staring impatiently at the laptop screen, his fingers flying over the keys.

"I wont ask how you guessed my password."

"Really Mycroft? A child would have guessed Battenberg."

"What exactly are you looking for brother-" Mycroft watched several images flash by, then the screen came to a pause. Mycroft squinted and Sherlock zoomed in.

"I see Molly, but where-" Mycroft knew from experience his brother was talking to himself, and it was best not to interrupt. The British Government must have missed something, because his brother went stiff, even his breathing was shallow. Looking at the screen, Mycroft searched for the distressing image.

There was the usual crowd of pedestrians, a slight break in the rush of people was a man. A very ordinary looking man, painfully so, his hair had the cctv been in color, his hair could be blond. He was waving, the expression on his face was imprinted on his mind. How often had he witness this exchange between friends, and always through the cctv. Then the crowd closed in and he was gone, just another pedestrian on their way somewhere.

"Surely you don't think-" Mycroft watched Sherlock flip through more images coming to stop on one angled at an alley. "Sherlock. John is dead." Mycroft knew to say this gently. Still his brother showed no signs of hearing him. Another heavy sigh from the government official and his brother turned around and like a phantom left the room.

The older Holmes turned the screen towards him, he could see the DI, nasty business that. All the same Sherlock caught the man, perhaps he was a little more enthusiastic about apprehending the criminal but he'd caught him.

Suddenly a flash on the screen, a man leaning over the DI, removing his jumper, would that jumper be brown. Was this just a trick? Someone was playing a prank, this being the case he would not let it slide. He found himself needing another drink.

_The dead should be allowed their rest so the living can move on in peace._


	5. flesh and bone

**Please forgive the typos i'm writing this on my stupid ipod cause my computer went kaput. super sad day last week. So here you go. another update cause i was motivated.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 5.** **FLESH AND BONE**

Jeremy looked over the soon to be donated equipment; several of the machines were in no way useful. He kindly declined the out of date machines and accepted some lab equipment. The kind nurse explained that they would pay for the shipping, so Jeremy wouldn't be hindered by such a large fragile box, on a train.

Now he had a choice, either he could walk around for a few more hours, enjoy the city and it's interesting people then catch his train, or he could stay the night. He decided he would give it some time, besides there was something about London. He just felt like this was his true home, like here is where he belonged. At the same time he had never felt so lost in his life.

"Oh, Doctor Underhill, I have a friend at St. Barts she said they may have some equipment you would find more up to date. "

"Thanks. That is very kind of you." Jeremy flashed an easy smile and the older nurse handed him a card with the address on the back.

After a few blocks Doctor Underhill couldn't quite shake the feeling he was being watched. He found that whatever part of the street he walked on the cctv cameras would turn in his direction. Then there was the mysterious black car that had also been following him for several blocks now.

It was a bit disconcerting, and at the same time humorous. Jeremy decided to test his theory of being followed. He dashed across the street barely making the walk light, then he darted down one alley and another. It was odd that he knew his way, in fact he found himself a few blocks from St. Barts. The black car was no where in sight, so perhaps he was in deed paranoid.

~0~

Sherlock took the papers from Molly, the one John had touched. He compared the prints to the ones on file.

"It's impossible." He said with a half-smile.

"What?" Molly asked nervously.

"John! He's alive! These are his prints! Look. Just look." Molly did just that,

"How?" she needed to sit down.

"I-I don't know but it doesn't matter. John is alive and he's somewhere in London. Where has he been? Why would he not show himself?" Sherlock tried to go over all possibilities. They hadn't argued the day of the accident; Sherlock had done his usual eye roll and a semi promise to not blow anything up.

The younger Holmes would never forget the way John had placed a cup of tea at his elbow, then a plate of toast.

"Eat. I'm not leaving till that is gone."

"You'll miss your boat." Sherlock had huffed.

"Well then you better eat." Just like that Sherlock forced the toast down and the tea, he shot John a disgusted look.

"That's a good boy. Now, try not to blow anything up or start a fire before I get back. And stay out of my room."

Sherlock had waved John off, he didn't even look up from the microscope, as if slides of saliva were more important than John. He regretted his inattention, had he known they would never meet again-his stomach curled. Then his heart pounded in his chest.

Alive, John wasn't gone, he was here. He looked healthy enough on camera, so why the deception? Was it a cruel payback for Sherlock's disappearance?

No, John wasn't like that, it wasn't in his personality and it would be against his honor system. Was someone keeping him from contacting his friends? For what reason? If that theory were so, then he wouldn't have helped Molly or Lestrade. He would have tried to slip a message; instead his body posture advertised indifference. Why?

Sherlock needed to clear his mind, needed somewhere to think.

~0~

Jeremy nearly stumbled off the side walk when he came to St. Barts. He knew that roof, knew it so clearly. His heart started to pound in his ears and his mouth went dry. He could see the young man in the dark coat, could hear the fear in his own voice, but he could never make out the damn words.

 This place haunted his dreams, it was significant to him. He couldn't control the impulse to go to the roof, to look down on the city street. Maybe he'd find himself, or remember more gruesome details. Jeremy thought he might discover some hidden truth, memories that for some reason his mind locked away.

"Well time to shake it loose." Straightening his shoulders he started for the entrance, when he came to the front of the Hospital his legs felt like rubber, and his heart sped up. Looking at the empty sidewalk, a flash of a bloody body and staining a dark coat.

Jeremy pushed that away, he knew without really knowing that the man was dead. That it would have been grisly, the unforgiving cement meeting flesh and bone. Jeremy almost lost his lunch, instead he hurried inside.

This place felt familiar; perhaps he worked here once before. A red headed nurse directed him to the lab. However he had no intention of going there just yet, he was more interested in the roof. Finding the stairs he slipped in unnoticed, his feet against the cool steps echoed off the walls, and he was nearly breathless when he reached the roof top doors.

After his accident he was still working on getting to a hundred percent, of course waking up from nightmares in the middle of the night didn't help. Jeremy hadn't had a good night's rest as far back as his memory extended.

Doctor Underhill didn't know what to expect when he opened the doors, there was nothing of interest there, just the usual vents and weathered stone. Perhaps this wasn't a memory of his, just the street was. He had to see the street blow; there was something significant about this place. Something and he would sort it out, even if he had to stand on that ledge for an hour.

~0~

Sherlock pushed through the unlocked door leading to the roof. He needed to think, Molly's nervous pacing was distracting, the sound of the tissue analyzer was off-putting he needed clarity.

The dark-haired detective started to pace, everything he knew about John ran through his head. He sorted essential (His family and birthday) from non essential information. (He loves tea and Jam)

Then he heard the shuffle of feet, he nearly snarled in frustration, he wasn't alone. The roof was his, why was someone else up here, didn't they know it was prohibited? Of course the rules never applied to him, rules rarely did.

"Don't bother me, I have to think." He snapped without looking over at the intruder. Still the man moved closer despite the detectives warning.

"I know you?" a breathless question.

"Sure, yes. In the paper I know-" Sherlock caught himself, he needed to look up, but at the same time he didn't want to. Hope was beautiful and vicious, he didn't know if he could take it.

Gray eyes moved slowly, turning until finally they came to meet blue, blue like a clear sky. Blue like John's.

"John?" Sherlock was perplexed by his actions, his body seemed to take on a mind of it's own. One moment he was standing in shock the next he was embracing the blond in front of him.

"Excuse me. I can't breathe. I know you?" Jeremy stepped back, it was the suicide jumper, the one-but how was he alive?

"John it's me. Sherlock." The consulting detective felt his heart drop, something was wrong.

"Sorry, my name is Jeremy. Doctor Jeremy Underhill. I wish I could recall your name-I feel like we've met before." Jeremy said this all in a string of rushed words, his voice cracking at the end. Why did his eyes decide now was the time to become watery. Surely it wasn't an emotional response.

"John?" Sherlock kept his hands on the shorter man's shoulders.

"Sorry-" a frustrated sigh "I cant remember much-I was-"

"You were in an accident a boating accident. You died; we all thought you were dead. You just were lost." Sherlock studied the face he thought he'd never see again, he committed it once more to memory.

"Dead? Yeah. Is there a reason I keep thinking you should be the one dead?" Both men just stood in complete silence, but it was a comfortable one. Jeremy felt like this was normal, that extended silences like this were what home felt like.


	6. SHOCK

**CHAPTER 6. SHOCK**

Jeremy watched the younger man, the dark haired bloke seemed to be lost in thought. Doctor Underhill took this opportunity to openly study this stranger for any details that would spark a memory. Of course there was the dark coat, the blue scarf and the head of dark curls. Why could he not remember anything more, he found it all so frustrating. He was about to say as much except the stranger took hold of his wrist suddenly and they were rushing out the door and down the stairs.

"Familiar faces should bring back your memory, that's right. We'll start in the lab!" Sherlock pulled the surprised, shorter man down the crowded corridor, ignoring the dirty looks from hospital staff.

Jeremy couldn't understand the feeling of déjà vu, he tried to further explore the feeling but the two exploded through another set of doors, into what he guessed to be the lab.

"We first met here at St. Barts. I'll show you and you can tell me if you remember anything, any minor detail. Don't hold back." The tall man's eyes bore into Jeremy and the voice of this stranger was just as intense. Jeremy could only nod, and sighed heavily, he was in a morgue, well this was interesting.

"Sherlock. Have you figured-" Molly entered from her office, her words and steps faltered.

"Oh, hello again." Jeremy knew this woman; he'd helped her in the street, what a coincidence. And he found himself moving forward very quickly on his Doctor's instinct right in time to catch the small woman when she fainted.

"Well that was an interesting reaction." Sherlock sounded disinterested in the situation. Jeremy could only look to him for help, the poor woman was so pale.

"Perhaps we should sit her down, why don't you go fetch a glass of water." Sherlock almost objected but John used his Doctor's voice, and instinctively Sherlock didn't protest.

Molly realized she was sitting up, a cold pack against the back of her neck, a confused set of brown eyes found blue.

"Now, calm down Miss, you almost injured yourself."

"Yeah, I was just surprised-how? How is this possible? John? Where have you been?"

Jeremy winced at the sudden emotion in this tiny woman's voice, he wanted to remember, he wished he could.

"I'm sorry. I-"

"He's lost his memory Molly. Here drink this water." The sharp baritone voice made the two doctor's jump. "I was trying to get him to remember something, spark a memory but I guess this place isn't what he needs. Come along John, we can try another place." Sherlock nearly left the confused Doctor behind sweeping from the room. John could only look to the pale young woman.

"Go." She smiled brightly sipping her water. "Go. And welcome back."

"John." Sherlock peeked back into the lab impatiently.

"I'm coming. I'm coming." Jeremy couldn't help but roll his eyes. Once the two were outside John's reaction to the place on the sidewalk caused the taller man to pause.

"John. It-I. John. We put that behind us." Sherlock tried to sound certain, but sometimes even he doubted this.

"How? I mean I saw you jump. I have dreams about it. Nightmares. I thought my mind made it up. Made you up. Well until today. But I saw you dead." Jeremy tried to work it out but it started to give him a headache.

"It's a long story. Come on. I'll tell you later. But first we will go to Baker Street 221B. Ring a bell?" Sherlock waited hopeful, and still a blank expression from his Doctor. He refused to give up, quickly hailing a cab the two climbed in. Sherlock ignored his brother's text messages.

"Your phone is beeping. Sounds like you have a message. Are you going to check? Could be important."

"John, my brother isn't important right now."

"Your brother? There's two of you?" Sherlock couldn't help but grin, there could be hope yet.

The cab pulled up to the street, and Jeremy climbed out, the sun was starting to go down, as was the temperature.

Sherlock watched the doctor rub his shoulder, "Your war wound always acts up in the cold weather. Perhaps some tea will help. You love tea. And for some ungodly reason you seem to think it is the cure all to any bad day or injury. Well that and a few paracetamol."

Jeremy followed this odd stranger in, the first thing Jeremy noticed was the sweet smell of fresh biscuits and tea. This triggered a memory almost immediately knocking him over.

He could see himself leaning against the wall just at the bottom of these stairs, leaning back and laughing. He wasn't alone either; he recalled seeing the tall young man joining him. Or perhaps he instigated it, but what they were laughing about or anything beyond that instance of camaraderie, Jeremy couldn't recall.

"This is where we live." Sherlock hurried up the steps to their flat.

"Oh? We were ugh-flatmates?" Jeremy wondered how that was possible. This Sherlock character didn't seem the flamate type.

"We **_are_** flatmates." Sherlock corrected his friend. " Is anything triggering your memory? I haven't changed a thing, and aside from a few chemistry experiments I've kept everything in it's same place." Sherlock was removing his scarf and coat. "Your room is upstairs, you will find it hasn't been ugh, well." Sherlock looked uncomfortable "Just go up and see if you can remember anything. I'll make tea."

Jeremy nodded and headed towards the second set of stairs, wondering what he would find in "his" room. How long had they been flatmates? The place was a mess, did he never have his flatmate clean up? Did Jeremy/John, never tidy up? And had there been a skull on the mantel?

The door to _his_ room was closed, and Jeremy slowly turned the old copper door knob. Once inside he caught the familiar scent of his aftershave. This room was spotless just like the one at home. Moving to the dresser he could see that John had a few jumpers and a handful of trousers, but they were well kept. The closet held even more mysteries.

There was a soldier's dress uniform. Had he been in the army? How long? The scar on his shoulder made sense now, he had to be this John. But why couldn't he remember. Frustrated he continued to search, for what he didn't know. However he found a small tin box shoved in the corner, just beside a pair of old army boots. Taking the small tin box out he sat on the soft bed. Opening it carefully, feeling like an intruder or a thief. There were medals, and pictures. He saw himself but not himself. Who was this man standing among other soldiers? What kind of person was this Captain John Watson?

"A good one." The baritone voice answered his unspoken question.

"You received that bullet wound in the line of duty. You were trying to save someone and a sniper caught you right through the shoulder."

"Did the other soldier live?" Jeremy wanted to know, something in him already knew the answer.

"No, the bullet went through your shoulder and vest into the young man you were aiding. Something you blame yourself for, but I never understood why."

Jeremy put the tin box away from him, he could only shrug, running a hand over his face.

"Why can't I remember? It feels familiar but nothing stronger than that. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"John. Just-"

"Sherlock. Woohoo, I've picked up some groceries. Are you home?" A woman called through the flat. Sherlock winced, looking towards the open door.

"Better break it to her slowly or we may have a repeat fainting incident." Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, "Follow me John, but I'll go into the living room first you wait till it's safe to come out. I'll perhaps have her sit first. Yes, sitting could keep things less complicated-"

"Excuse me." Jeremy interrupted, "Who now?"

"Our landlady John. Mrs. Hudson. Do keep up. Now as I said follow me." Jeremy rolled his eyes and did as the younger man commanded.

"Sherlock, what in the world are you doing upstairs?" Jeremy could hear the older woman ask softly. She didn't let Sherlock answer, which made Jeremy nearly laugh, only because it seemed no one dared interrupt the man.

"Oh, I know you miss him. But it's not healthy to dwell. It's time we move on. You need to eat more. The Doctor would roll over in his grave if he saw the state you are in. He'd be very cross with you-" the older woman was babbling on and Jeremy couldn't help but strain to hear her softer voice. Was she the landlady or housekeeper?

"Mrs. Hudson. Do shut up. I have something I need to-"

"Oh, poor dear, say no more." She was moving past the consulting detective. "It's hard for me too, sometimes I walk into the flat and I expect to see him standing there in his coat just home from work. Or sitting in his chair enjoying a cup of tea while you rant on about something or whatever."

Sherlock tried to call her attention back to him, she was heading right past the stairs where John was standing.

"Now, that said. I want you to eat some toast. And don't give me that transport excuse. Whatever that rubbish is supposed to mean. Tell him John, it's not healthy to go without food for days." Sherlock stiffened and Jeremy didn't know what to say as he stepped out slowly into the cluttered living room. "And while you're at it, can you please, please hide your gun a little better. My walls." She huffed and started back down the stairs. "You boys really, I don't know what you're thinking most days. It's enough to drive a poor old woman mad." After the landlady stormed out exasperated and completely oblivious Sherlock and John/Jeremy shared a confused look.

They didn't have much time to dwell when Sherlock's phone started to buzz again, the odd man smiled like a wolf in a hen house.

"Case! Get your coat John!" and once more Jeremy was being pulled out the door.

"Ugh, case? "Jeremy felt so confused.

"Yes. John case. Now shut up I have to think. Dimmock has asked for our assistance. I guess he's a bit over his head, not surprising. Looks like a pretty cut and dry murder. Really Scotland Yard can't function one day without Lestrade it's pathetic considering he doesn't contribute much to the intellect pool."

"What?" Jeremy's headache was growing to the size of football. Was this man mad? And what did that make him for following him? To a crime scene? "You are a cop?"

"No, don't insult me. I'm a consulting Detective and you Doctor Watson are my partner, and colleague." Jeremy listened as the Consulting Detective described their duties and relationship with Scotland yard. Once they arrived, Jeremy reluctantly left the comfort and safety of the cab.

Sherlock marched forward glaring at his phone and texting, where as Jeremy caught the sudden startled looks on the faces of the constables. He gave them a polite nod, but it didn't seem to help the situation.

"Don't worry about them John, they all attended your funeral."


	7. COLD

**CHAPTER 7. COLD**

Jeremy tried not to make eye contact with too many of these constables; he kept his head down, hoping they'd all stop staring. It was actually making him feel uncomfortable. Did _"John"_ know the names of any of these men and women? Where they expecting him to say something that _"John"_ would, and if so what would he/John say?

The startled faces made Jeremy consider this whole mad scheme a mistake. Why was he even here? How did he allow himself to be dragged into this situation? He didn't know anything about crime scenes. John might have but he wasn't John, he was Jeremy Underhill. Well at least he thought he was? What happened to Jeremy if John survived instead?

"John, shut up." Sherlock didn't look up from his mobile.

"What?" Jeremy flinched at the harsh tone.

"You're thinking too loud." As a matter of fact.

"I'm what?"

"Thinking too loud. It's unfortunate that this Doctor Underhill didn't survive the accident. However there is nothing to gain in dwelling on the issue. As for John Watson, he was a well loved and respected as a friend and colleague. You can think what you want, but **_YOU_** are John Watson. The memory will return. As you can see by the shocked faces you have many friends. You will remember their names in time. And no one will demand anything more from you. However you will expect too much from yourself. After all that is the kind of man you are. " Sherlock shook his head frowning at his mobile; he then turned to meet the confusion of his friend.

"How do you know?" Jeremy's voice was low almost a whisper.

"Because John, I know you. Now let's put this sentiment behind us, Dimmock is in over his head. This shouldn't take long to figure out."

"What did John-I mean what do I do? What's my role in all of this?"

"You're the Doctor, you confirm my findings, and sometimes supply much needed medical insight." Sherlock was striding past more stunned looking constables, some removed their hats, but no one said anything. Jeremy wished they would, he wished someone would speak. At the same time he dreaded any awkward conversations.

The duo hurried up the dimly lit stairwell, several officers were milling around a door way just at the top of the stairwell. The old abandoned building looked ready to collapse in on itself, the steps creaked loudly under Jeremy's and Sherlock's feet. The Consulting Detective didn't notice or didn't care; Jeremy couldn't understand the sudden feeling of exasperation.

"Watch your step Sherlock, the stairs definitely are not up to code." Just as the words left Jeremy's mouth the dark haired detective nearly lost his footing due to a weak bored, his foot had gone straight through. Out of instinct the Doctor steadied his friend.

"John watch your step these stairs are a death trap." Sherlock straightened himself and stepping over the splintered wood.

Jeremy made a face once they entered the room, there was the body of a young man mid twenties, blood already dried in a large puddle around the victim. It was a relief to the blond Doctor that the person/body was face down. He could only imagine what the deceased had suffered. Somehow it would have been harder if Jeremy could see the man's face.

He wondered if John had ever been affected by the gruesome sights he most likely came into contact with.

"Naturally." The consulting detective perhaps a mind reader answered Jeremy's question in the same casual manner one would tell the time.

"Well?" Dimmock half glanced at the dark haired detective. "What do you think?"

"I think you work with idiots that carelessly trampled my crime scene." Sherlock snapped.

"Yeah, alright. Alright. I'm not in the mood to argue, today is supposed to be my day off and Lestrade had to go and nearly get himself killed."

"Ah, you shouldn't be so eager; she's not interested in you. She only wants to make her ex boyfriend jealous."

"How the hell-" Dimmock stopped there, as if resigning himself to the statement, then moving on. "It doesn't matter. Just look at this and give me something. Anything, please." Jeremy hung back, he was unsure as to what he was expected to do. Obviously the person was dead.

"Doctor if you would." Jeremy stepped around the young DI who was frowning down at the body like it were a puzzle he couldn't solve. For all intensive purposes it was. Jeremy leaned in, his eyes scanning the figure sprawled out on his belly.

"Have you gone to visit Lestrade?" Dimmock ignored the blond companion that Sherlock had brought with him.

"Yes. I did stop in to reprimand him for being so careless."

"Well, I heard you caught the bastard. I can't say I was too sorry to hear the suspect was injured."

"It was unfortunate, but these things happen." Sherlock watched John, he could read the confusion, why wasn't this working? What else could he do to get the man to snap out of it. John wasn't this, this unsure, unadventurous country doctor. God, if John had been dead, he really would be turning over in his grave. A country Doctor indeed.

"Well, blunt force trauma to the head, I'd say it was a handle, maybe an ax handle, or something thin and heavy. It was hard enough to break the man's neck." John offered this information like a pupil uncertain of the answer his professor wanted.

"Right." Sherlock sighed; turning to Dimmock was still not paying any attention to the Doctor, no surprise. The man was eager to get back to his date, Sherlock had tried to warn him, and of course the young DI wouldn't listen.

The good Doctor stood back now as the tall dark haired detective started to waltz around the body, then the room. He was spouting off information as if it were written on the walls and floor. When he was finished Jeremy couldn't help but express his surprise.

"That was brilliant."

"So you've said before." Sherlock smiled proudly, then just as quickly returned to his normal bored expression.

"Doctor, please don't fan the flames of his ego. He's hard enough to live-" Sherlock watched the color drain from Dimmock. _Predictable._

"Doctor?" The stunned DI asked the question he couldn't believe the answer to.

"Uh, sorry-" Doctor Underhill started,

"Wait-what?" The DI still hadn't regained color.

"Maybe you should just sit down, you're looking-" Jeremy was cut off.

"Leave him John, he'll be fine. Just a bit of shock. Right Dimmock? It's not like you haven't seen someone come back from the dead before." The younger DI grimaced, his jaw set.

"This isn't a joke. Where the hell have you been?" Dimmock seemed genuinely angry. "You know what I don't want to know." He glared at John, "I hope you two are done with the disappearing acts, because next time I'm going to demand to see a body!" The young DI stormed out of the room, shouting for the forensics team to go ahead.

"Well that was a bit of a surprise." Sherlock said this in genuine disbelief. "I thought for sure he would faint. I underestimated his fondness for you. He obviously feels betrayed."

"Wait-" Jeremy tried to keep up with the turn of events.

"No matter, all will be resolved. Come along Doctor we have a murder weapon to find, it should be at least four blocks over, wrapped in newspaper and thrown into a skip."

"I wont ask how you knows this."  
"Good, I hate to explain myself."

**_~0~_ **

Mycroft studied his brother's companion in disbelief, however the facial recognition program was rarely ever wrong. This was John Watson, back from the dead. First a wave of relief then one of irritation, how had this happened?

Someone obviously had made an error, one that Mycroft would hold them accountable for.

Unfortunately there was the matter of his brother dragging an amnesiac around; Sherlock was out of his depth. The older Holmes had already tried several times to contact his brother through text, but the stubborn man refused to answer.

The British Government had first set his men out to follow the man he thought to be a doppelganger of his-

No.

Sherlock's friend.

The blond man had dodged the black car before the security team could bring him in. This wouldn't happen again, Mycroft wanted answers.

The older Holmes called for his car, it had been too long since he'd kidnapped the Doctor. Of course kidnap was what John called it. Mycroft thought of it more as two associates having a meeting and touching base.


	8. EXPLAIN

**chapter 8. EXPLAIN**

After Sherlock found the ax he texted Dimmock, the old Sherlock(before the fall) would have taken the evidence and run his own tests. However this Sherlock had returned with a whole new take and respect on the handling of evidence, especially by _his_ NSY.

How many of foreign police officers had bumbled an investigation, one where he all but delivered the criminal on a gold platter. Too many times he'd been delayed a week, two weeks a month longer because of a simple mistake in handling evidence.

Sherlock had sworn when he returned he would show more respect for the NSY forensic team, even if it was Anderson at the head of the team. Some of the idiots he'd worked with while taking down Moriarty's web made Anderson look like a genius and that's saying a lot. Although, Sherlock would never mention this to anyone.

Dimmock's response was quick.

**_See you soon then.-D_ **

Then shortly after the text the young DI sent;

**_Does Lestrade know yet?-D_ **

A minute later

**_You know what don't answer that. Of course he does.-D_ **

Sherlock frowned again trying to understand Dimmock, shouldn't he be excited? John was alive, alive and in good health, well despite the whole lost memory thing. Still, why would Dimmock of all people take it to heart?

He and John only occasionally talked, they did join Lestrade at the pub, and of course Dimmock and John as well as the other constables all played poker at least twice a month. Did Dimmock feel betrayed by John and Lestrade, resentful for not being _let in on the secret?_

This is why he felt friendships were confusing, and this time was no different. He looked over at John who was staring down the alley onto the street preoccupied with his own thoughts. Sherlock watched the look of confusion as well as other emotions flittering across John's clean shaven face.

John worried he would never get himself back to normal, he would never remember and the people who were his friends and family would be hurt even more. The good Doctor really was too hard on himself, how could he have such expectations? He had survived a trauma, one that ended in the deaths of two hundred and ten people. Freezing waters isn't a joke, suddenly Sherlock needed to know just how his friend managed to survive when others failed.

It didn't surprise him really, John was a fighter, he wouldn't have given up or given in until his heart stopped. That was the John Sherlock knew, this John seemed less John like and more-well…boring and helpless.

The sirens neared and Sherlock took a step closer to John, perhaps he should explain to Dimmock and try and ease any hurt feelings. It was the least he could do, after all John had done the same for him upon his return. Though that was an entirely different situation.

Dimmock didn't greet John or Sherlock he only passed the two, yelling at his men to get the crime scene tape up and then at the forensics team "Hurry and process the scene."

"You'll be happy to know Anderson I didn't touch anything." Sherlock said this in his usual condescending tone. The forensics officer didn't meet his eyes, he only quietly shook his head not raising to the bait.

It had been two years since his return and Anderson still refused to verbally spare with him. It was actually disappointing for some reason, John had explained it once, but it never made sense.

Anderson felt guilty as did Donovan, who by the way, dropped her mobile when she saw John. Anderson heard her sharp intake of breath, he turned and followed the Sergeants startled gaze. The forensics officer shook his head again, and continued on without a word. Odd, he almost looked as if he expected this kind of situation. _Interesting._

"Where the hell-" Sally approached the Doctor.

"I'm sorry do I know you?" Jeremy took a step back, he thought the woman was familiar and hoped it wasn't an old girlfriend of this John's.

"What do you bloody mean DO I KNOW YOU! Of course you bloody well KNOW ME! Now answer the damn question. Where have you been? Do you two get off on making your friends bury empty coffins? It's sick! I expect more from-"

"Sargent if you could please stop for a breath of air, I can explain the situation to you." John turned to his friend? Flatmate? It didn't matter he turned to Sherlock in relief, he thought the woman was on the verge of slapping him and he really didn't know what to say to that.

"I don't even think I want to hear-"

"John has amnesia." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What?" Dimmock who had been standing off to the side pretending to not be listening was now stepping closer to the group.

"As I said John has been living as a Doctor Jeremy Underhill since the accident."

"How does that happen?" Sally's voice was shaking and her hands crossed over her chest.

"I really don't know. I washed up on shore, the village Doctor assumed Doctor Jeremy Underhill was my name seeing how I was gripping a suitcase with the name on the tag. I had no other identification and I must bear a strong resemblance to the man or they'd of tried to identify who I truly was based on the suspicion I wasn't Doctor Underhill."

Sherlock watched John's eyes grow distant when he described the situation. "I don't remember anything really, just waking up at the hospital wondering where I was and who I was. I thought if I had family or friends they would have come for me, but no one had. Apparently Doctor Underhill was on his way to the village to take over another Doctor's practice." John shrugged. "Funny how these work out. I'm only in London to look over donated medical supplies for the small Hospital."

Dimmock grimaced and Sally just massaged her temples.

"I really am sorry. I don't know either of you-"

"John this is Detective Inspector Dimmock and this well breed lady is Sargent Donovan." John offered his hand to Dimmock who slowly accepted it, flinching when his hand gripped John's. He almost expected it to be a hallucination, for John to not be real.

Sherlock had felt the same way, it had hurt to think he would wake up from such a dream. He would have felt robbed somehow, robbed and empty.

"Yeah, sorry about that earlier mate. Of course you would never-I mean. I mean we play poker and meet at the park on Sunday's after your short shift at the clinic and we play a bit of footie against a handful of constables."

Sherlock frowned, how did he not know that? He thought he knew everything about John.

"You might be small but your fast. Maybe it's from all these years of keeping up with this bastard." Dimmock continued to shake John's hand, then released it awkwardly.

"Sargent." John offered his hand, the woman only glared at it.

"Donovan-" Dimmock started to reprimand her.

"Sargent Sally Donovan. You call me Sally unless I call that one there a freak then it's Donovan. It's your job to look over the medical end of things for this freak and you're supposed to be keeping this one-" She pointed at Sherlock "in line. And out of his way." She pointed the DI, then turned on her black healed feet and marched away forgetting her phone.

"Don't mind her, she's actually not so bad once you're on her good side."

"She has a good side?" John couldn't help but say, this caused Dimmock to laugh.

"Right! Well anyway I have to get back to work. I'll text you Sherlock after the lab has results. John it's damn good to see you mate!" He shook John's hand one more time and hurried off. The blond Doctor didn't know how to respond to such open warmth. He wished even more that he could remember these people, the Sergeant was glancing over at him every few seconds, as if to check if he was truly there and not a figment of her imagination.

Sherlock picked up the Sargent's mobile, frowning "I'll be right back John. Hard to get a hold of a Sargent if she doesn't have her phone. Dull." he grumbled. "Idiot."

Jeremy nodded again it seemed that's all he could do, Sherlock approached the dark haired Saregent in the beige coat. Her eyes narrowing on him, Jeremy wondered how John dealt with that woman.

The other constables were throwing him the odd look or two, so he decided to make his way to the street, just to get out of the way. Or out of sight, either way, he needed air and the alley felt cramped.

"Doctor Underhill?" A woman holding a blackberry approached him as soon as he cleared the alleyway.

"Uh, yeah that would be me." Jeremy wondered how the woman could walk and text without tripping over her feet.

"My employer would like a word."

"Your employer?"

"Please get in the car." She gestured with her head at a black car that was pulled up to the curb just behind a squad car.

"Well I was actually-"

"Please sir, come with us." Jeremy jumped hearing a male voice behind him, turning he saw a fairly large man in a black suit with sunglasses. Who wore sunglasses at night?

"Don't suppose I have a choice?" he sighed.

The dark haired woman in the black skirt suit didn't answer. The big gangster? Bodyguard? Directed him towards the car with a heavy hand on the Doctor's shoulder.

"Wait what about-"

"He'll be fine." The woman slide into the leather seat beside Jeremy. Well at least the car was nice.

"Do you have a name?" He took in the pretty woman next to him slipping on his seat belt.

She smiled and momentarily looked up "Uh, Anthea."

"Right, that's probably not your real name is it?"

She only returned to her blackberry leaving the Doctor with his own thoughts. Something came to him briefly, a warehouse a chair and an umbrella. Just as quickly the memory slipped away and John exhaled irritably, and today he thought it was going to be average.

 


	9. ISSUE

**CHAPTER 9. ISSUE**

The sleek black car pulled up to a building, and the driver got out to open the door for Jeremy. The blond Doctor nervously exited as he was clearly expected. "I'm sorry, why am I here?" No one answered his question; great he was a dead man, again. Somehow this time he doubted he would be coming back from the dead. He walked through the open doors of the empty warehouse building, the lights dim, he could see there was a man standing in the middle of the room leaning on an umbrella.

This felt vaguely familiar, and Jeremy thought he should be nervous however instincts told him to be more annoyed than anything. Annoyed? Exasperated? What was this?

"Uh, hello." John approached the stranger in the expensive gray suit. "I was told by-well you wanted to see me?"

"Doctor." Mycroft smiled despite himself, it was John, this man could not be anyone else but Doctor Watson. He even had an annoyed expression, that same polite grin.

The British Government didn't understand the sudden urge to shake the man's hand or god forbid hug him. This impulse was almost too strong, his eyes told him logically that John was real but his brain wanted more of a conformation. It was just like the first time seeing Sherlock after the fall.

"I can appreciate the confusion you must be experiencing, please sit." Mycroft pointed to the chair directly in front of him. John frowned then looked back at Mycroft, to the older Holmes' amusement John hadn't noticed the chair until now.

"No, I'd rather stand. Thank you. What is this about? I was-"

"You were just on a crime scene following Sherlock Holmes blindly through the alleys of London, without question."

"Excuse me?"

"John." Mycroft could tell the soldier was becoming even more irritated. _Good._ Perhaps this situation will jolt something in John's faulty memory.

"Alright, I am at a disadvantage you obviously know me, but I apologize I don't know you. However I get the feeling this isn't the first time you've kidnapped me?"

"John, kidnap is such an over dramatic word, really it's more like a business-"

"Cut the crap. What do you want?" Before Mycroft could answer his phone started to beep from a text, without looking he knew it was Sherlock, he chose to ignore it, but another followed and he knew better.

"Excuse me Doctor Watson."

"Oh, please, apparently I have all day. Don't let me disturb you."

**_Give him back.-SH_ **

**_Really Mycroft what do you hope to accomplish?-SH_ **

**_Where are you?-SH_ **

**_I will hack your work computer and it will trigger a system lock out if you don't answer me.-SH_ **

"It seems my brother is missing your presence. Doctor I only wanted to offer my help, come I may have something to jog your memory."

John didn't move at first but the tall man passed him without waiting; he approached the black car, getting in John realized the blackberry lady was gone.

"Alright fine, I guess I don't really have a choice."

"No, you don't." Mycroft replied while texting.

**_I'll bring him back after I've spoken to him.-MH_ **

"Here perhaps some light reading." The posh gentleman produced a folder marked confidential from mid air like magic. He handed it to Jeremy, "Go on. I'm sure you're curious about who John Watson was-is."Mycroft corrected himself quickly.

Jeremy opened the folder the words confidential were stamped in red, the first page held a paper clipped photograph of well-it was Jeremy but not. This version of him wore a dress uniform, John was a soldier.

"Are these therapy notes?" he asked suddenly offended and curious.

"John, I do hate redundant questions, do try to remember that."

"How the hell do you-who are you?"

"I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"Mycroft," Jeremy growled, "You can let me out where you picked me up."

"John I'm sure you want to know more, I do have whole audio files as well as video feed of your interactions with Sherlock."

"I'm not interested-"Jeremy had scanned the notes from a therapists quick hand,

"Trust issues." Mycroft sighed.

"You-this is personal. How did you come by this? You know what don't answer that. I don't know how Sherlock puts up with such invasion of privacy. It's a wonder the two of you hardly talk civilly." John snapped the file shut handing it back irritably forgetting what exactly he was going on about.

"Next I expect you'll be asking me for to take a bribe for information on your brother." Jeremy shook his head. "You know what, here is fine." The car had slowed for a red light and the Doctor nearly jumped from the car, sure to slam the door behind him. "Video surveillance indeed." It wasn't until he was four blocks down that he recalled the conversation. John knew Mycroft was Sherlock's older brother. The memories of hunting down hidden cameras and microphones were flooding his mind.

"John!" Sherlock was running towards him. Jeremy had a big grin on his face until he saw the detective. Why is it he could remember Sherlock's brother but had yet to remember Sherlock?

"Well you survived Mycroft. Did he try to bribe you again?"

"I didn't give him the chance-how did you know where to find me?"

"I texted him and he told me." Sherlock left out the part where he held Mycroft's laptop's password hostage, of course the older Holmes would have figured it out(eventually) but one thing Mycroft hated was wasting time. Time was relevant to everything Mycroft Holmes did, it meant money and man power the difference of war and peace a red light and a green light. Mycroft was boring.

"We are going to check out a lead." Sherlock hailed a cab and he was pulling John inside before he could object. "You were grinning. Did Mycroft's poor attempt at socializing stir your memory?"

"I remembered he was your brother, but I can't remember much. I did tell him off and in the process I said something about surveillance, that can't be right can it? Do you-"

"Oh yea, my brother and his _concern_. It's dreadfully annoying."

"Oh, I bet. Now where are we going?"

"A lead, I believe our killer had drinks at Mulls Pub before he killed the man. He is defiantly a regular."

"Right. What if he's there-"John didn't receive an answer, and the cab was already pulling up to the curb.

The two entered the pub and Sherlock went straight to the bar, as soon as they entered a man shot out the back door, and just as quickly Sherlock and John gave chase.


	10. remembrance

Jeremy took a wrong turn and managed to lose the detective, "Dammit, Sherlock!?" he called out, damn that man's long legs, and damn old age.

How John managed to keep up with the impossible man was beyond Jeremy.

He ran a few more blocks on instinct alone, if that could be trusted. Then he heard the struggle.

"Sherlock?" Jeremy ducked a meaty fist, where the hell did a second assailant come from? The man that Sherlock was fighting had a gun. What the hell was going on?

Distracted by his companion? Friend? This left an opening for Mr. Meaty Fist to land a hard right sending the smaller man spinning against the brick wall.

The taste of blood and the pounding in his head stunned the smaller man temporarily.

"Come on Shrimp." The big man in the jeans and stained Rugby shirt taunted.

Jeremy climbed to his feet putting his fists up, praying he knew how to fight. Ducking under an almost well aimed punch made him think otherwise, and then he caught a knee to his torso.

"John!" Sherlock yelled hitting the wall across from him.

"You and your little girlfriend there aren't leaving the alley and you are going to tell me how you knew where to find me." The man in the black coat demanded holding a gun on Sherlock, were as the other assailant stalked towards the groaning doctor. Adrenaline kicked in and before another foot could connect with his head or shoulders John was rolling away.

Sherlock tried to get to John, this version of John didn't know how to fight then the idiot Havers pulls a gun, obvious now that he only ran to lure Sherlock into a false sense of security, his friend had been waiting for the two. Now John was being kicked and Sherlock read murder in the suspect's eyes.

Sherlock kicked out the gun knocked out of the idiot Havers' reach. Still Sherlock was at a weight disadvantage against the bigger assailant. That and John-wait where did John go? Distraction is a great way to get oneself killed in these types of situations.

Case in point. Sherlock looked up and Havers had found a rusty pipe just lying around. _How convenient_.

The big man held it up ready to swing and the sound of a gunshot pierced the cold night air. First Sherlock thought of John, but then Havers confused stumbled back a hand to his chest, his face pale. "You shot me."

"No, I shot you." John was on his feet, his lip bleeding and a small gash just above his left eyebrow already clotted over. "You alright Sherlock?" The Doctor was panting.

"John?" The detective stood quickly, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened.

"Of all the idiot things to go off and do, you had to have known this fool was armed. Now look my good trousers are ripped at the knee. This is coming out of your consulting fee."

"John?" Sherlock ignored the groaning and bleeding Havers, "John you remember?"

"Yes I bloody well remember. I remember how insanely reckless you are. You could have been killed. We'll talk about this later. Call an ambulance and the police."

He handed the gun to Sherlock and leaned over the bleeding man in the black coat. Sherlock could see the second assailant had been knocked out cold; he was lying on his fat belly.

By the time Dimmock arrived the accomplice was waking up and Sherlock had the gun trained on him.

"Alright, after we get these two taken care of I'm sure you two are going to explain. " The young DI was glaring at Sherlock.

"Yes of course but John needs to be seen by a Doctor and some rest." Sherlock pulled John out of the alley, dropping the gun into an open evidence bag held by a constable.

"I am a Doctor you realize. I can see to it myself."

"Yes well shut up John, this gets us out of paperwork, we can put it off at least two days. "

"Lestrade!" John paused. "I should go-"

"No. Doctor you are going to Baker Street you will see to those rather nasty cuts and then you will sleep on it. You will find I haven't thrown anything out yet-"

"Yes. I noticed." John felt uncomfortable. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I really don't remember what happened I know that doesn't help, but I feel badly I put you through that. I know how it feels when-" John began but Sherlock hailed a cab.

"Forget it John. It was never your fault. Leave it to you to find a way to take responsibility. Unless you sank the boat? John did you-"

"No." John chuckled, and then sobered quickly "How many died?"

"John you helped twelve to the waiting life boats. That's twelve lives that are living and breathing because you risked your own life for strangers."

John didn't reply, he was never comfortable with praise. Sherlock wondered how John could be so dense.

They arrived at Baker Street and John made his way to the kitchen out of habit to start the kettle. He handed Sherlock a cup and demanded to know what he'd missed in the last two months.

Sherlock skimmed over the funeral, and John realized he needed to thank Mycroft.

"I should call my sister."

"I would wait till morning John. Wait! I've got the perfect idea. Let's surprise her tomorrow, we can bring her coffee and watch her drop it all over herself when you pop up."

"Sherlock it's not a surprise party. And I could never do that to Harry."

"Dull." Sherlock huffed and waited for his friend to ascend the stairs to his room before taking up the violin and playing a soft tune.

Sherlock was lost in his mind palace long enough he didn't hear John leave the flat around dawn.

John found himself walking, unable to sleep he'd learned walking could ease his stress. Soon his restless legs came to rest in front of a familiar black stone. The grave stone read SHERLOCK HOLMES. It was simple and to the point just like the man himself. And just a few feet away he discovered his own, except someone had put fresh flowers in front of it, kept it tidy. Maybe Mrs. Hudson? Harry? Sherlock wasn't sentimental enough and John didn't really have any close friends he could see visiting enough to place fresh flowers on his grave.

The stone marker was waist height; it had his name birth date and assumed death date. The words under the numbers made him catch his breath.

"I know, disgustingly sentimental." Sherlock's voice didn't catch John by surprise; in fact he'd have been surprised if the detective hadn't followed. "Mycroft chose them and it was all quite fitting."

"It's all a bit-"

"Overrated?"

"Overwhelming. Isn't this your family plot?"

"Come along John, lets get some coffee and visit our dear friend Lestrade. It'll be fun to-"

"I don't think he needs the surprise. As you put it."

"John, I remember you being more fun."

John followed behind his friend in the dark coat glancing back briefly, the cemetery was empty, only the two men making their way out. John shook his head, how fitting for the two empty graves to stand under the shade of the cemetery trees having each other to keep themselves company.

THE END


End file.
